


Truth

by CMBaggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-19 20:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11905893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMBaggs/pseuds/CMBaggs
Summary: Lies are bitter. A canon divergence told in short chapters. What if...?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just can’t do it. I can’t call him Aegon. If this was Martin’s choice then I’m confident he had a good reason for it and I hope it will be revealed in his books. But… it could also just be D&D not wanting to deal with Elia and her kids at all. Anyway, a Song of Ice and Fire is my primary reference point, and because I want to maintain as many of the plot arcs as possible I chose to go with a different name for the sake of my sanity.  
> That being said, I hope to show why I like the name Aemon for him in future chapters.

The sun rose, tinting the cool dry air with soft pink light. The great walls cast deep shadows. Wood smoke and baking bread warmed the air. There was a hush over Winterfell’s stable yard, punctured by the snorting of horses and the crunch of gravel beneath Jon’s boots. Ghost padded along, silent as a shadow. Jon lifted the saddle from his shoulder, onto his black courser, positioning his saddle bags. He checked the straps.

“So, this is it then?” He flinched at the tone. Brisk as the morning air. He turned to face his father.

“Lord Stark,” Jon said, nodding respectfully to his father.

Father’s jaw clenched, once, twice. His brow was heavy. He swallowed and then said, brusquely; “There’s no way to convince you otherwise?”

Jon faltered a moment, marshaling his courage. “I can’t stay here,” he tried. “You won’t take me South. And the Wall…” He thought of Uncle Benjen’s words. The sounds of revelry spilled out of the great hall like a mess into the hush of the training yard. “See a little of the world, a taste of what you might be giving up,” he had said. “The Wall will still be here.” Lady Stark had been clear. It mattered little where a bastard chose to go. So long as he was not here. The South, Esssos… Jon thought of the King’s Road. Of it stretching away from Winterfell, over the rough grasses of the northern highlands, rocky and twisting into forests of Sentinel trees and pine. How far might he go? “It’s time I made my own way.”

Father looked at the mud. His jaw tightened, and his breathing came in long calming beats as he retreated to his own council. “Very well,” father grumbled. “Come.”  
Jon hesitated, staring after the gruff, receding figure. His dark cloak billowing after him. The courser snorted. Ready, laden with bags and saddle, he paced eagerly at the dirt. How long will this take? Jon wondered if he should untack the poor beast or just flatly refuse.

“Now,” father commanded, over his shoulder. Jon obeyed.

The pace is quick through the courtyard. The first clangs of the smith’s hammer rang in the air. The noise receded as father led Jon down into the crypts, their footfalls echoing the walls. The bastard checked at the bottom of the stairwell. He was not a Stark. There was no place for him here.

“Come along now,” father said.

The long hall was a dark expanse broken by islands of torch light. Jon pressed his hand to the wall, rough yet warm as blood. The air was thick here like a hot breath, heavy and warm. The earthy scent of peat and dust filled his nose. They passed the tombs of Uncle Brandon and Grandfather. Their long solemn faces. Father paused before the statue of Aunt Lyanna. She was the only woman among the Lords of Winterfell. An honor Jon wished he understood. If she could earn a place, perhaps a bastard son…

It bared not thinking about.

Like all the others she was cold and unseeing. There is only so much to be done with rough stone. A direwolf sat, resolute at her side. They stood, father and son, in silence. So long that a nameless worry knotted in Jon’s chest. He forced his voice from his throat.

“Why are we here?”

“For the truth,” father replied. He stared at the willful sister, dead before her time. Not once had he spoken of her, until now. Highborn and beautiful. “You wanted to know about your mother.” He nodded to the statue. “Here she is. Ask your questions.”

Jon let out a shaking breath. For several beats of his heart he cannot find any words. “My mother?” he asked, his voice squeezing out as a pained croak.

“Aye,” Lord Stark said with a nod. “You look like her.”

Jon tore his gaze away from Lord Stark, to the statue. His mother. How many times had he come through this corridor with Robb in their games? She was here in the darkness, all along.

“She never wanted what was planned for her,” Lord Stark said. “She wanted to make her own way. She wanted to be a knight.”

“You’re not my father,” was all Jon could manage to say.

Lord Stark gave a weak smile and shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

A pause followed more frightful than the unknowns of Jon’s dark dreams. “Then… who?”

Lord Stark looked squarely at Jon. “You’re Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” he replied, unflinching.

Jon stepped back. Rhaegar Targaryen. The kidnapper and rapist and son of the Mad King. The enemy of King Robert Baratheon. “So it’s worse than I imagined then,” he grumbled. “I’m a bastard and an orphan. The son of a rapist besides.”

“You’re no bastard” Lord Stark declared, “and your mother no damsel. Had things gone differently…” Eddard Stark paused, casting a glance down the corridor. More quietly he said, “you’d have been Prince Aemon Targaryen.”

Jon inhaled a sharp breath. A name. A true name. Targaryen. It melted Snow. Lord Stark thrust the torch into Jon’s numb fingers and turned away. He stepped behind the statue, to a small bench of stone. He heaved, sliding the stone lid. Not a bench at all. A chest. The stone grinded in protest. Jon craned his neck to see around Lord Stark’s bulk. To peer into the darkness.

“She wanted you to have these,” he explained, reaching into the darkness “Something to remember them by.” Lord Stark pulled out a bundle. He offered it to Jon. Warily, he accepted. Slowly, to still the tremble in his fingers, Jon unwrapped the parcel. The parchment peeled away to reveal a great silk bundle. There was something hard in the soft center of it all but Jon ignored that. Black as the ocean on a moonless night. Thick scales stitched beautifully in ruby and crimson silk. Teeth and talons in cloth of silver, gleaming. A spiraling three-headed dragon. The sigil of House Targaryen.

“Your mother’s wedding cloak. Rhaegar was the man she chose.”

“They loved each other?”

“Aye. For all the good it did them.”

Jon continued to unfurl the cloak, to find it wrapped around a lap harp. Solid Ash, carved in the likeness of a dragon. Stained dark. The strings gleam. Silvery. Jon plucked one string and note sounded, clear and true against the guttering torches.

“It belonged to your father,” Lord Stark explained.

“A minstrel?”

Lord Eddard smiled sadly, some memory, perhaps. “He had a talent for it. He left it with Lyanna. Few of us go off intending to die.”  
Jon nodded absently. He knew nothing at all about this man. At least, nothing good. It seemed strange even talking to Lord Stark about it. He glanced at Uncle Brandon and Grandfather’s statues and shame welled up in him unbidden. They died for this secret wedding, they died and he lived.

“All this time…” Jon said bitterly, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. It was everything he ever wanted and yet the anger kindled anyway. His life was a lie. Would that he had been happy in the lie and never asked. Darkness hides the ugly things, just as snow hides mud. Siblings lost in a moment. Winterfell suddenly, truly no longer his to call home.

“I always knew I wasn’t a Stark.”

“You are a Stark,” Lord Stark declared. “You may have someone else’s name, but you have my blood.”  
It tasted bitter all the same. Gaining a name while losing a father. His only pride, all his life, had been that Lord Eddard Stark, good, noble honorable Lord Stark, had been his father. Now only Uncle Ned. He gained a mother and a father he knew nothing about. Jon Snow was dead. A lie. Who was he now?

“She loved you,” Lord Stark said. “Never doubt that. The lie never sat well on my tongue… but it needed to be done. To protect you.”

“Protect me?” Jon breathed. The bitterness creeps into his tone, sour and bitter as the rind. “By letting me think I was a bastard?” Years of Lady Stark’s cold blue eyes staring down at him, small with hatred. “I want you gone,” she snapped, more wolf than fish. Would Sansa have been so cool had she known him as Prince Aemon? Would he have suffered Robb’s unshakable self-possession? “I’m the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon once dared declare in a clash of wooden blades. Innocent. “No. You’re not.” Rob said. Smug and terribly honest. “And you never will be.”

“It was hard for you. I know,” Lord Stark admitted. He shifted from one foot to the other and grimaced. “It was the best I could do, given the circumstances. To keep Robert from getting his hands on you.”

“Why?” Jon asked. “He earned the throne by right. I’m just a boy. I’m no threat to him. I swear it.” My family dead or scattered, Jon thought. Why could they not leave him with his rightful name at very least. A dragon raised by wolves. What harm could there be? He could have been a knight, maybe. Or a Lord of a small Holdfast in the Gift. This Targaryen would have been happy with just that. And then there was always the Wall…

“After what the Lannisters did to Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys...” Lord Stark fell silent. Jon concluded the end.

“He’d have killed me.”

Lord Stark nodded grimly. “It wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.”

Jon frowned.

“And my father’s family. Did any of them survive? Do they know about me? Do they even care?”

Lord Stark sighed heavily.

“Aye, they’d care. If they knew you. You have an aunt and uncle living in exile across the Narrow Sea.”

Jon let out a breath. He wondered again about the King’s Road and how long it would take, with Ghost lopping along in the shadow of his courser, for them to reach White Harbor. Jon had never seen the sea. Dire wolves have not been south of the Wall for hundreds of years. How far would this one go?


	2. Jon 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that I made a slight alteration to the previous chapter, namely, to Jon’s birth name. I’m sorry. I just… I can’t call him Aegon.  
> Cheers.

Mud shucked with each slogging step, his boots soaked through with cold russet water. Jon’s toes felt numb. His ears rang. Clashing steel, accompanied by the dying screams of men and horses. Cacophony and chaos. He scrambled, following the flow, dodging arrows and swinging blades, to the center of the battle where three rivers met.

  
There he found them.

  
Around and around they went, two warriors astride great, powerful horses, slashing with hooves and sword and hammer. One wore blackened plate, beautiful and polished, the three-headed dragon set in fiery rubies upon his cuirass. His longsword gleamed in the sun. The other knight, gold and black and crowned with the horns of a mighty stag, whirled a war hammer over his head, his powerful blows denting the heavy steel of the Dragon Knight's shield. The water churned and frothed around their destriers.

  
Suddenly the Stag Knight roared with all the fury of the storm. Rising up, swinging his hammer in a great arc. The impact, the sickening crunch of solid steel connecting with the black breast plate. A dragon shattered. Rubies or blood, glittered in the air. Greed eclipsed fear as soldiers scrambled in the red water scavenging scattered jewels.

  
The Stag Knight loomed over Jon, hammer raised to strike...

  
Jon woke with a start, gasping and sweating. The room rolled and swayed, and the wooden walls creaked. All around there was a dull roaring and the scent of salt. The sea. Ghost licked his face and the boy hugged him close, breathing in the musky scent of his fur.

  
Sometimes it was the old dream, of Winterfell closed to him. He knew now, why there was no place for him in the Halls of his dreams. I am not a Stark. Why Winterfell would forever be eerily empty and why the crypts always threatened him. Truth buried with dust and bones. That was the funny thing about it. Now that it was discovered, in the open, there was no way to unknow it. Most nights Jon dreamt of the river.

  
“He met Robert on the field,” Lord Stark had said. “He was brave.”

  
But was he honorable? Was he dutiful? Jon dared not ask. Rhaegar Targaryen was nothing like Lord Eddard Stark. A wife and two children, abandoned. One grandfather murdered and the other quite mad. What more did Jon need know? Shame welled up in Jon’s chest and sat there like a weight leaving him miserable. He was no bastard, had never been a bastard, and it changed nothing. Nothing at all.

  
“Land!” came the sudden shout, muffled though it was by the walls of his little cabin.

  
The hail echoed across the decks from one sailor to another. The scuffle and beat of movement against the planks as they exploded into action. A welcomed sound. On the open sea doubt mingled with regret under a good measure of illness. White Harbor to King’s Landing had been as a trip to the Seven Hells, the constant roiling of the sea a marked change from the cold stillness of Winterfell. Ghost did not fair much better. He laid on his side, still as stone. Jon’s stomach eventually settled some, between King’s Landing and Pentos, but Jon knew he would never be a sailor. Wolves did not belong at sea.

  
Jon checked his baggage; a single sack with some clothing. All northern in fashion and all ill-suited to this heat, forcing Jon to shed layers and make due. The cloak and harp were stowed safely at the bottom of it all. Jon kept his coin pouch close, in his jerkin, cautious with his finite wealth. He exited the small cabin to find the sun beginning its climb in a clear azure sky. Already the sailors were unloading their cargo, as eager as Jon about the prospect of shore.

  
Captain Tumitis stood near the plank to the busy docks of Pentos hurling orders. He turned to Jon as the boy approached.

  
“Thank you,” Jon said. The captain nodded, his broad smile framed by his green forked beard.

  
“A pleasure,” he replied. “Though I admit, my men will not be terribly sorry to see your beast go. Wolves make some… uneasy.”

  
Jon gave Ghost a pat. “I appreciate your service, captain. I wish you good fortune.”

  
“You paid,” Tumitis said with a shrug. “Good luck seeking those relatives of yours. Though, I hope for your sake you know more about them then you let on.”

  
“Only that they chose to cross the Narrow Sea.”

  
“I do not envy your task, boy. Essos is big and the cities and dialects as numerous as fish in the sea. Try the taverns and winesinks. They’re as good a place as any to find out who’s in town.”

  
Stepping off the plank of the Storm Dancer, Jon sighed. The ground no longer pitched and rolled beneath his feet but the boy had no idea where to go. Ghost licked his hand and Jon clutched a fistful of the soft white fur. As they crossed the narrow sea Ghost had molted, tufts coming off in fluffy cloudlike clumps. He looked lanky now, with his large paws and long legs. Jon hoped they would thrive here.

“Let’s find our bearings,” Jon said with more confidence than he felt.

  
It was midmorning and the Pentoshi markets were teeming. Stalls of wood and coloured oilcloth lined the thoroughfares. There was a spice to the air, a mixture of perfumes and the sweetness of piled dates and ripening fruit. This was not White Harbor. The air there was crisp, as Northern air ought to be, even if a little briny.

Nor was it King’s Landing.

Jon had taken Lord Stark’s words to heart and did not dare venture into King Robert’s capitol. A northern boy with a white wolf would have been too curious a thing. Everywhere they went, South of Winterfell, eyes clung to him and his strange white beast like hair on a dog. They laid low, like disgraceful contraband. Even then, tucked away in the belly of the Storm Dancer, the smell and noise reached them and the stink of it, the sheer press of the population had rattled him.

Pentos, at first glance, was more pleasing to the eye but no less daunting. The air was filled with the cadence of indecipherable dialects. Exotic smells wafted on the breeze and the music of strange instruments poured from the windows of winesinks. He followed the sound, to these dens, hoping that the convergence of people would give him a broader sampling of local knowledge. The Smoking Log in Winterfell had been one such place. Ortwin, the keeper there, seemed to know everything about everyone in Winter Town. Stories to tell, wisdom gleaned from years of listening to other men’s mistakes. He knew obvious things, like that Harlan preferred stout over ale and that Greyjoy enjoyed the girls a little too greedily. He also knew more dangerous things; words that would slip after cups were drained. Drink made men brave. Fools’ courage.  
Try the inns, the captain had suggested. Local smallfolk may know little of exiled Westrosi nobles, Jon supposed, but merchants and sellswords would be another matter entirely.

“Now we just need to find someone who speaks our language,” he said.

That proved easier than Jon dared hope. Why not? Pentos is the gateway to Essos. A Westrosi merchant from the Arbor, eager to sell wine, remarked that the exiled Targaryens were in town. The man himself was shaped like a pear, growing greater in girth at the base. Face clean of scruff or fuzz. It did not help that he wore robes of chartreuse silk hemmed with yellow and soft reds.

“Targaryens,” Jon asked innocently. “I have not heard that name in years. Why would they be here in Pentos?”

“They’re planning a wedding,” the merchant said. “A Targaryen marrying some dothraki barbarian.”

“Dothraki?” Jon said. He took an empty seat.

“Horselords,” the man elaborated. “Marauders. But…” and the merchant leaned in towards the boy and smiled. Jon felt like a co-conspirator. “They don’t come to Pentos to sack. The magisters are wise. Pentos pays tribute to the Khals – the Dothraki ‘kings’ – and then their people spend their stolen gold. It is a good time to be in Pentos. A wedding! They will need wine. Gallons upon gallons of wine!”

Jon bought the man, Marl, another flagon.

“Where are they staying?” he finally asked. “The Targaryens?”

“As guests,” Marl said. “Of Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Now there’s a man who appreciates a good vintage.”


	3. Daenerys 1

The aroma of sizzling fat and spices set Dany’s stomach churning. Sitting among bright silk cushions with Viserys and Magister Illyrio on the terrace, they sipped wines and savored the food spread before them at leisure. A breeze blew in from the ocean, warm and salted, lifting the silk curtains with a sigh.

“I’ll cross the sea and retake Dragonstone first,” Viserys declared, drunk on the fantasy. “Or perhaps even Storm’s End. We’ll see how the Usurper likes that.”

“Storm’s End is an easily defended castle. It will take patience and…”

“I think I know a thing about patience, Illyrio,” Viserys drawled petulantly. “I’ve wait years to reclaim my throne. I will bring fire and blood to my enemies, but the loyalists?” Her brother smiled when he thought of them, the nameless lords toasting his name. “They will come to know prosperity under my reign. I’ll even pardon the men of the Watch. Those who served my father and refused to bend to the Usurper will find a true and just king.”

All his hopes pinned to her. Essential yet inanimate and powerless, like the Dragon of the Cryvass board. A piece to be moved by players. Dany shivered. Used in the move for victory or tossed from the board in defeat.

“Your Grace, my agents have brought a most curious visitor to my home,” the magister said, pulling Dany from her grim reflection. He sucked fruit juice from his fingers, absently. “A westrosi. Just a boy, really. He had been asking after you and the princess.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Jon Snow of Winterfell.”

Dany sucked in a breath. She knew of this place, from Viserys’ tales of Westeros. A dark, cold and ancient castle. Of the Usurper and his dog and the end of the greatest dynasty the world had ever seen.

“Winterfell?” Viserys asked, intrigued. He took a sip from his cup in quiet contemplation. “That’s the seat of House Stark, is it not?”

The Usurpers dogs? Here? Dany tried to school her emotions, but her stomach quivered even as hope soared. Perhaps, if the threat were real enough they would be forced to flee.

Illyrio smiled. “You are correct, your Grace.”

“What does this dog want?”

“An audience, it would seem. He brings a most compelling tale.”

“Does he,” Viserys asked, a bemused grin changing his face. “Are you certain it is a tale and not a knife?”

“I did not wish to take a chance and had my men detain him. He has been disarmed and his beast…

“A beast?”

“A direwolf.”

Viserys chuffed. “Northerners. Such odd notions. What of this beast?”

“I thought it best to have it penned in the stables. Under some pressure the boy shared his intentions. I thought, perhaps, you would wish to hear it from him, first hand.”

“It must be quite a tale, indeed, Illyrio, to have you so rattled. This had best not be a waste of my time.”

“I assure you, your Grace, it is not. Shall I have him brought before you?”

Viserys nodded, though his eyes were narrowed. Enemies and daggers were everywhere for the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Illyrio gestured and his collared servant went running to fetch this unexpected guest. They waited for what felt like an age, an uneasy anticipation hanging in the air like a shroud. Viserys absently picked at his fingers. Dany kept her hands firmly in her lap. Do not move, she thought. Be still, be silent as a statue.

Finally, the servant returned. The doors swung open and a boy, indeed he could not be much older than she, joins them. A gloomy youth, pale skinned and dark of hair, dressed in a quilted leather surcoat and wool. High boots scuffed at the toes and travel pack slung on his shoulder. He walked slow and hesitant.

“Jon Snow, of Winterfell, you stand before King Viserys of the House Targaryen, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms,” Illyrio announced grandly. “And his sister, the princess, Daenerys Stormborn.”

The youth dipped his head in greeting, but he did not kneel. His right hand fidgeted at his side, thumb and index finger rubbing. The one nervous point in the overall calm.

“Thank you,” Jon said, eyes averted. He dared lift his gaze for but a moment to look at Viserys and then her. His eyes lingered only briefly. Daenerys gave him a small nod of her head. It seemed only polite to do so, despite everything.

“So,” Viserys said with a smirk. “You’re Stark’s bastard?”

Jon Snow bristled. “Aye,” he replied, his voice rough as gravel. “That’s what I’d always been told.”

“Magister Illyrio says you sought us out,” Viserys continued. “Why? Have you come to bend the knee to your rightful king?”

The boy shifted his weight, eyes on the stones beneath his boots. “The truth is…I don’t know how to say this…”

“Well,” Viserys said impatiently. “Out with it. I don’t have all night.”

“The thing is…” and again, the boy raised his gaze for an instant. “I’m… not Lord Stark’s bastard at all. In truth, Lyanna Stark was my mother.”

“Lyanna Stark?” Viserys repeated, an incredulous bit of humor turning up his voice. “The woman that seduced my brother and lured him into folly? What does that have to do with me?”

Jon Snow’s gaze came off the floor then and stayed fixed on Viserys. He frowned and moved his mouth to speak but then shut it tight and nothing came out. The boy dropped the pack on his shoulder and dug deep, rummaging through it. His possessions as few and meager as her own it would seem. From the bottom of the travel pack the boy produced an armload fabric, heavy black brocade. Finer than anything on the boy’s own back. A cloak unfurled, revealing the proud, gleaming crimson image of the coiled three-headed dragon.

“It’s beautiful,” Daenerys breathed.

Jon Snow revealed something else at the center. Viserys’ found his feet, bolting up as if pricked by a pin. He closed the space between them in quick paces. The northern boy held his ground. He no longer looked away. Quick as a viper Viserys snatched the item from the boy’s hands. An instrument. A wood and silver harp.

When Viserys found his voice, it came out hard and sharp. “Where did you get this?”

Jon Snow raised his chin, eyes wide and stance guarded, fists clenched. “My father,” he said blankly.

“Your father?!” Viserys croaked, his voice bordering hysterical. The words cracked a little. His grip on the harp so tight his knuckles turned white. Then Viserys said, with all the venom of an accusation; “This belonged to my brother, Rhaegar!”

The boy did not flinch. “Aye,” he said, voice low and calm. “My father.” Jon Snow raised the cloak in his hand. “They were wed.”

Daenerys stood from her seat. She approached the dark stranger.

“Illyrio!” Viserys shrieked, rounding on the Magister. He stalked back to their benefactor. “This is a mummer’s farce!”

Illyrio shook his head, a look of stunned pity on his face. “I assure you, your Grace,” he replied solemnly. “This is no farce.”

Dany pretended she did not hear panic in her brother’s voice. She looked in the boy’s eyes and reached for the cloak, cautious and timid. Jon Snow hesitated a moment, and then allowed her to take it. She ran her hands over the silk and the threads, marveling at the beautiful embroidery and softness of the fabric.

“It is lovely,” she said. “This was your mother’s wedding cloak? From my brother?”

Jon Snow almost smiled.

Viserys snarled, still clutching Rhaegar’s harp. “I want this lying bastard flogged and cast out!”

Jon’s eyes widened and he looked from Viserys to Dany herself, dark eyes pleading. I cannot help you, she thought, I will only make things worse. This poor boy did not yet know that the dragon was easily woken.

“I would council patience, your Grace,” Illyrio said, finally pulling his girth out of his seat. “The tale is… interesting and the evidence…”

“Evidence? What evidence? This lying bastard has no evidence!”

“I admit,” Illyrio soothed. “It is circumstantial at best, to be sure but compelling none the less. It explains a great deal.”

“What is there to explain?”

“I have sent word to a friend in Westeros to verify the possibility,” the Magister replied. “Rest assured, he will find the truth. You have told me the story of your brother and this Stark girl. If what the boy says is true then there must be some recording of it. One need only know where to look.”

Daenerys suppressed a smile and resolutely turned from her brother. The idea that Rhaegar, brave, noble Rhaegar may have a surviving son and that he found his way to them. She sighed. Dany looked at her stranger kin. The boy was shorter than she imagined her eldest brother to be. But as lean and graceful. Handsome under the mess of dusky curls. Eyes so dark they seemed black. “You may be our nephew?”

Jon smiled. A confused, fleeting little smile that lasted less than a moment. “I am told my mother named me Aemon,” he explained. “Aemon Targaryen. She… liked knights.”

Aemon. A fine name.

“I don’t believe it,” Viserys declared ungraciously. He shook his head in denial, adamant. “You look nothing like him.”

Aemon balled his fists at the flippant dismissal and grimaced, like some sour taste had invaded his mouth. “My uncle is an honorable man,” he said, evenly. “He says that my mother loved your brother. That he loved her. That they wed and his family suffered for it. Three kingsguard died, defending me. Why? What reason has Eddard Stark to lie about this?”

Three Kingsguard dying in Dorne. Rhaegar’s infatuation with the Stark girl. All fit with the tune Viserys sang so often. Of valiant Rhaegar, dying in the waters of the Trident for the woman he loved. But Viserys scoffed and pretended he did not know. “Isn’t it obvious?”

The boy blinked, a slight frown puckering his brow. He shook his head. “Do you have any idea what this could cost him?”

“Given Robert Baratheon’s treatment of Elia and the other children,” Magister Illyrio ventured.

“Eddard Stark lied to protect him,” Dany said. Could Lord Stark have hidden a dragon in Winterfell all these years?

“It is quite possible, my princess.”

Viserys sneered. “I am the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms! This lying bastard of a traitor -”

“My uncle is an honorable man–” Aemon cut in.

“I want this mongrel gone!” Viserys commanded.

“I mean no disrespect, your Grace,” Illyrio said, trying to quell her brother’s temper. He sidled closer to Viserys, to speak more softly. “If what this boy says is true, surely you appreciate what this means…?”

“That he’s come to challenge me for my crown,” Viserys snapped. “I have news for you, dog,” he said, pointing at Aemon with each word. “Even if what you say is true… the crown is mine.”

“I don’t want your bloody crown!”

Viserys carried on, regardless of the flat refusal. “I was named heir. Me, a true Targaryen. Above you or even your Dornish brother Aegon!”

Aemon shook his head, ready to speak but the magister wheeled Viserys away in a conspiratorial stroll. The northern boy bit his tongue.

“Indeed, you are the rightful King,” Illyrio soothed, more quietly still. Their voices still carried in the lavish expanse of Illyrio’s home. “And now you have found your nephew, born of House Stark. Lords Paramount and Wardens of the North. What if this boy can help bring them back to their rightful king?”

That gave Viserys pause. He eyed their scowling maybe-nephew, twirling a ring on his finger in quiet agitated contemplation. Finally, in a voice that was rather subdued, he asked, “Do you think the Starks would come to my cause? That they would abandon the Usurper?”

“Why else did they shelter this boy? They have put themselves at great risk.”

“If it is true.”

“Regardless,” Illyrio said. “I have set my allies to the task.”

Viserys considered Aemon. “Why did you come?” he asked. “And speak true.”

Aemon let out a small sigh. “I never knew my mother. You are all I have of my father,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “Rhaegar Targaryen… I know nothing of him, save what we’ve all been told. Who was he, really? Am I anything like him? I hoped…”

“For a family reunion?” Viserys said derisively. His smile was anything but kind. “Is that all?”

“Aye,” Aemon said. He sighed again. “That’s all. If you’ll have me.”

Dany hugged the wedding cloak and looked to Viserys. Please, please let him stay. The Dragon should have three heads, she thought. We are so few. So very few. She knew better than to say these things aloud. She held her tongue.

Ever mercurial, Viserys smiled.

“Very well,” Viserys said grandly, taking on a sudden air of graciousness. “On behalf of House Targaryen, for the love I bore my brother, I shall accept you as one of our own. But I warn you, mongrel. Should you prove false you will come to know Fire and Blood.”


End file.
